Righteous
by Bruce's Bat Cave
Summary: Sherlock is more troubled than people have come to believe, and has more emotions than a man who claims not to be a man should have. Fem!John. Self-Harm. Possible Trigger. Multi-Chap.
1. The Deed

**A/N: This is fem!John. Pre-pairing. (Pairing by the end.) Sherlock turns to self-harming to stop the flood of horrible thoughts in his head. This is the story of what happens when Joan is everyone's rock but then that rock starts to crumble. First few chapters will be Sherlock-centric. Triggering, read at your own risk. This chapter is only being used to build a slight background and bring light to the situation. I hope you enjoy.**

Song for this chapter; Breathe Me - Sia.

_Righteous; acting in accordance with the dictates of religion or morality._

Sherlock liked to imagine the way that people might kill themselves had they ever tried. This is what he was doing now at the diner that Joan had demanded they eat at since the kitchen was Joan's idea of 'destroyed.' The man in the far right corner, nearest to the window, was a lawyer. He was wearing an expensive suit, custom tailored by the look of the stitching, yet he was obviously at a casual dinner considering the look of the man in the jeans and jumper across from him. The lawyer liked to make everyone around him feel inferior by dressing nicely and using terms the civilians would not know. This man wouldn't dare kill himself for a few years. Not until his wife left him for someone with less of an ego. When that happened, Sherlock could see the image of this man's body swinging from the ceiling, connected to a cheap rope bought from the hardware store when the mind was already gone. Someone like that wouldn't like any scars left behind.

There was a woman in the seat of horror, the one right before the entrance to the restroom. The men's to be exact. She was alone, picking at her food and staring dazedly across the room into the ether. This woman, Sherlock thought, will drag her death out. With this one it wasn't a matter of _if_ it was most definitely _when_. She was a widowed housewife. Bleach stains on her hands from bleaching up the kids messes. But, they were old. Widowed because of the wedding band transferred to the right hand instead of the left. Woman typically did this when they were in mourning, they continue to wear it because if they didn't they'd feel unfaithful. Yet, the matter that it is on the opposite hand makes her seem like she is hoping for someone to pick her up as a date. The children are clearly teenaged, not toddler. Dark bags under her eyes and the petulant way she looks around the room. After living with a teenger you start to adapt their attitude. The widower and mother of maybe two would want to drag her death out in the form of a razor. Slicing across her skin in smooth lines, rivulets of blood traveling down her forearm. In her last moments she'd want to be able to look back on her life, all the good and the bad, maybe come to terms with it before it all ended.

At the image of blood in his mind, Sherlock focused his attention back on Joan with a start, a slight one at that. The woman he was accompanying was going on about some sort of happy war tale. Sherlock liked having Joan for a flatmate and a consulting partner. At the best times, she was less idiotic and naive as the rest and at the worst, she could at least drive away the feelings of dread that have been creeping up on Sherlock more and more now.

The need now, was unbearable. And there was nothing Joan could unknowingly do to stop it. Things were trickling through the crack in the dam Sherlock uses to ward off unwanted memories and thoughts. Memories of addiction riddled teenage years were buzzing around his head in swarms. Thoughts of_ freak _and _worthless _were driving Sherlock quickly toward the edge. He needed a release, something.

The tall man stood quickly, interrupting the good Doctor mid-sentence. "If you'll pardon me, Joan, I have other matters to attend do. But do not fret, the man at the bar has been occasionally glancing at you since we've arrived and hopes I'm your brother." Sherlock vacated the diner, leaving a shocked Joan in his dust.

The youngest Holmes walked quickly and with purpose. He was only about 4 blocks from Baker Street and he just hoped he could hold onto it for that long.

Bursting into the door of the complex and bounding up the stairs, he pushed open the door that led into his shared flat and made his way straight to the bathroom. Joan had no idea, but one of these tiles was just a bit loose, just loose enough to slide a thin razor under. Going to said tile and retrieving the item, Sherlock shed his coat and scarf, rolling up the sleeves to hit shirt.

He plopped down unceremoniously down onto the cold floor, back against the tub. The consulting detective twirled the blade between his fingers expertly, thoughts bombarding his senses and dulling them, along with his force of will and common sense.

_No one will care, it's okay. Just a few cuts. You need it. It's good. It blocks out the idiots. It keeps you sane. Or, sane enough. It's good for you. It's a release. One that doesn't involve anyone else._

Little did Anderson know every time she commented on his skills and about how no sane person should be able to do all of it, she was absolutely right. Sherlock Holmes had a brilliant mind but suffered from manic depression, bipolar disorder, and slight anxiety. Often times he imagined that he was the one who had murdered the corpse he was examining. It was a fun game- imagining something he could so easily do. But something he should never do. Sherlock had never come close to killing anyone, but some people made him furious to the point of imaging the color draining from their faces along with the blood from their body. Sherlock was more of a man than most people cared to believe.

Choosing to think no longer, he succumbed to the willingness of his mind, sliding the razor cleanly across his forearm. Sighing in relief, the genius let his head roll back against the tub and another slice adorn his wrist. After a few more cuts, some deep enough to leave scars, he set the razor down and simply enjoyed the feeling of exuding bliss.

Joan made her way back to 221B slowly, thinking in a manner. Something was off with Sherlock earlier, she just didn't know what it had been. Sherlock had been correct about the man at the bar. He was more than willing to keep Joan company for a few drinks. Even dole out his number without a second though. Joan wouldn't call him though, there was nothing there.

Climbing the stairs slowly, she called her flat-mate's name. When she got no answer she sighed slightly, Sherlock Holmes was quite the oddity. Pulling her blonde hair up into a bun, she hung her jacket on the coat rack next to the door and decided to try again.

"Sherlock? Are you home?" She walked about the flat and stopped when she came to hear a shuffling in the bathroom. "Sherlock are you in there?" When she didn't receive and answer, her eyebrows pulled together in worry. "Are you alright in there?" There was still not a peep from inside, and the shuffling had stopped. "I'm coming in." Nothing.

When she pushed open the door, the state she found Sherlock in almost brought her to her knees.

** A/N: I hope this is alright! I tried my damndest to make it long but interesting. There will be more to come, maybe even later today. I appreciate criticism! **


	2. Found

**A/N: I sort of abandoned this because I didn't see it going places but I just re-read and actually really like the story line so I'm going to try and pick it up again.**

"_Sherlock." _Joan said, not just said, but _pronounced. _The word laced with every emotion she couldn't let out right now.

Sherlock groaned, letting his control slip a bit. He may enjoy this woman's company but he wouldn't tolerate the interrupt of his bliss. He was going to tell her so too, until she kneeled next to him and took his arm rougly, causing a hiss to escape through clenched teeth.

The ebony locked man opened his eyes, resigning to the fact he would not get his peace. He carefully examined his doctor, noticing the pull between her brow- signalling the concentration on her work. He also noticed the slight quiver of her lower lip; a tell that said this wasn't merely a patient, but a friend. And that effected her deeply. Joan's hands were steady as they examined the wounds and pulled bandages out of a medical kit Sherlock hand't noticed she'd grabbed. That was odd, how could he have missed something that would require such obvious movement?

Joan decided they didn't need stitches or cleaning, considering the cuts were new and hand't had a chance to get any dirt in them. Though, she did put some medicinal salve on it to keep them clean and made sur her own hands were spotless before she set to work. _Work. _That was it, she had to keep her mind on it lest her emotions take full control. She honestly couldn't believe it. The Sherlock Holmes resorted to _self-harm_. When she was finally done and with nothing more to distract her, she allowed her eyes to flick up to her flatmates, everything she couldn't say posed there.

Sherlock merely gazed ahead, the blankest expression he could aquire firmly in place. Joan shook her head in disbelief and stood from her kneeling position, glancing around the small bathroom until she found was she was looking for- the implement he'd used to harm himself.

It was simple enough- just a razor. One you could buy at any hardware store; which he probably did. Joan bent and picked it up, doing an about-face and storming out of the bathroom, the bloody razor clenched tightly in her fist.

Sherlock was surprised by the sudden departure and stood too quickly, having to brace himself against the sink as a rolling wave of naseau hit him. As soon as it passed, he stepped quickly after his flatmate, opening the door she had just slammed shut. Sherlock followed her down the stairs of their shared flat and out unto the street before he made any noise to alert her to his presence.

"Joan!" Sherlock called, his long gait more than large enough to catch up with her but he decided to keep his distance for a moment. When the doctor made no move to awknowledge him, instead choosing to keep her stride steady as she walked into an alley not far from the flat. From the slight movement of her shoulders (different from the movement needed to walk), Sherlock could tell she was crying.

The startling revelationcaused Sherlock's stride to falter, but only just. He soon regained and turned into the alley soon enough to see Joan toss the razor in the dumpster. Sherlock knew Joan cared about him; more than a flatmate should. How could he have not noticed with his startling perceptiveness? He had hoped professionalism would eclipse her feelings; that was until he noticed shifts in his own feelings toward her. But he had chalked it up to friendly bonding.

Joan stood facing the dumpster for a moment before turning slowly to the man behind her; thought she had tried her damndest, her face was still covered in tear tracks and her eyes were filmy with more unshed.

Sherlock sucked in a quiet breath at the sight, immediatley not like it. It was so different from the usually uplifting ex-army girl she was. Joan was shaking her head slowly back and forth walking closer to him cautiously, afraid he may dissapear as it seemed. Or maybe run like a spooked animal.

"Why?" Her voice was surprisingly strong for the weeping she was doing.

Sherlock jerked his head in the direction of their flat before walking that way, knowing she'd follow.


End file.
